paris, love & murder
by mayarmayar
Summary: 1937. Hazel Wong and Daisy Wells are off on another adventure - and this time, it's to none other than Paris, the city of love. Passion and romance ensue - but it all proves an illusion when the young prima ballerina Tamara Tchaikovskaya is murdered. Visitors from the past. Attention from the present. Will the Detective Society be able to bring the murderer to justice in time?
1. 1

**1**

_Je ne voulais pas trouver l'amour_

_Mais Paris a quelque chose_

_Qui donne envie d'aimer, d'aimer passionément_

_Mon coeur est à toi pour toujours_

The quill scratches against the paper, splattering dots of ink across the otherwise unmarred page.

Hazel stares at the words she's written, her attention undivided, even as the world outside the train window beside her rushes past her in a blur of colour.

She instantly wishes she'd written it in invisible ink, so Daisy, seated on her right, would stop peering over her shoulder curiously and squinting at her casebook. Of course, Daisy's her best friend—and Hazel would never hide anything from her—but Hazel knows this is one worry of hers that Daisy would never be able to empathise with.

Still, that clearly doesn't stop Daisy from remarking, "Oh, I say, you're getting better at your French, Hazel! Mamzelle will be proud, and this is in good time for Paris._ I did not want to find love… but there is something about Paris that makes you want to love, and love passionately… you will always have my heart…"_

As she translates the last sentence of Hazel's paragraph, her voice trails off and Hazel doesn't need to turn her head and look at her to know that on a certain level, she has understood what Hazel was trying to convey through her words.

Hazel closes the casebook and looks anywhere but at Daisy, while Daisy sighs and says, "Oh, Hazel, when will you stop mooning over Alexander and get it done and over with? It's either you stop being such a coward and confess to him, or you stop loving him altogether." She tilts her head at Hazel. "Personally, I much prefer the latter option."

Hazel's cheeks burn. "Daisy!"

"What?" she asks innocently. "I'm telling the truth, Watson. He doesn't deserve such a clever and kind-hearted person such as my Vice-President if he can't reciprocate your… feelings."

She says the last word like it has a bad taste to it. Daisy has never been one for romance—Hazel has only seen her been obsessed with one person—Martita Torrera, the actress in the Rue Theatre of London.

Last year, she and Daisy were acting in Romeo and Juliet with Martita, and Daisy was pretty much a stuttering, blushing mess whenever she was around the beautiful actress. But as soon as they left London, Daisy has once again morphed into the familiar role of a confident and unshakeable young lady, and Hazel—well. She's still ever the short, awkward girl she is—even though she'd grown an amazing two inches and slimmed down quite a bit over the Deepdean school term and the beginning of this hols, she's still a fair bit shorter than willowy and slender Daisy, who carries herself in such an elegant and ladylike manner that if Hazel didn't know her better, she wouldn't have ever thought her otherwise.

But Hazel? Hazel's a completely different story. Just a few months past sixteen, she might've grown more… ladylike, but even right now, she feels strange, her unfamiliar long legs folded awkwardly against the train seat that seems too small for comfort now, the soles of her boots completely pressing on the floor now.

It's no doubt she feels lighter and more elegant somehow though, and as she steals a glance at the half-reflection of her face in the train window, she sees the proof—dark, slender eyes which hold a wisdom beyond her age, defined high cheekbones which make her look more regal than she feels, a little button nose, and full lips the colour of roses. Instead of the two neat pleats she's always put her hair in, her hair is now bunched into a single loose braid, curled around her neck to rest against her shoulder, and Daisy would not stop remarking on the change.

"Oh, Hazel," she'd said, "how absolutely pretty you look! You might even turn out to be as pretty as Martita, though I am positive that will never happen. Martita's beauty and grace are unrivalled."

Hazel isn't sure what to make of it herself. The changes she's been going through honestly make her quite uncomfortable. This is the last thing she would ever get used to—growing up. Now, she has to worry about strangers on the train stealing second glances at her, and the lingering looks make the hairs on her arms stand on their ends. She grips the pen in her hand tighter, gets out a fresh slip of letter-writing paper from her satchel and starts a new letter to Alexander. In invisible ink, of course.

_Dear Alexander,_

_How have you been? I hope you are well. Daisy and I are on the train bound for Paris, France (how exciting!) and we have just a couple more hours before we reach the Gare du Nord. We will be staying at the Hotel Saint Jacques with Uncle Felix and Aunt Lucy. They have a work assignment there, and of course, they wouldn't tell us anything about it. I hear that it offers a rich experience of the Belle Époque—I'm positive you and George have learnt about it in school, it's such a powerful period of time in history characterised by optimism, regional peace, economic prosperity and so many clever innovations I'm sure I would never have come up with myself. I can't wait to experience Paris firsthand. We are also going to attend the World Fair, or more specifically, the Exposition Internationale des Arts et Techniques dans la Vie Moderne (that took me quite a while to write) and I am terribly excited to see impressions of the majestic tower they are proposing to build, the Phare du Monde._

_However, I am getting off topic. As much as I'm excited for all these wondrous things waiting for us in Paris, I'd love to finally see you and George again, after slightly more than a year. Daisy says that it is extremely likely we shall find another murder in the city of love, but you know how Daisy is. If there is a murder, though, I will be comforted by the fact that all four of us will be there to solve it. Come along faster, won't you? I miss you terribly._

_Write back soon,_

_Hazel_

"Dear God," Daisy drawls. "Another love letter to Alexander." Hazel ignores her, and for once, the familiar flush in her cheeks doesn't come. She'll like to say it's because she's finally gotten over Alexander during the one-year gap in their meetings, but sadly, it isn't—it's because she's long gotten used to Daisy's jibes about her 'obsession' with Alexander. And although Hazel would very much love to say that Alexander returned her feelings, she can't—because he doesn't return her feelings, and Hazel had an aching feeling he never would.

There was, regrettably, a short moment in time, after their adventures together in London last year, when Hazel had read too much into his body language at the Westminster Bridge and became way too hopeful about Alexander's possible feelings for her. Now, thinking back, she wants to laugh at her foolishness. She may love her detective mind, but sometimes it just has a tendency to overthink simple things.

Daisy seems to be able to read her mind every single time, because she leans her head against Hazel's shoulder (no easy feat, considering Daisy's a head taller than Hazel) and murmurs, "You don't have to worry about him, Watson. After all, you still have me." Her blonde curls tickle Hazel's neck, but she doesn't move an inch—and sure enough, a silent minute later, Daisy's breathing steadies and just like that, she's asleep.

Hazel studies Daisy's peaceful face. Daisy looks much more like a regal and fair baby doll princess when she's asleep, her sharp mind no longer taking control of her practised expressions.

It's curious, how one looks when they're asleep. Or dead, in that matter. Hazel would know—she's seen too many dead bodies in the span of slightly more than two years—pushed off a balcony, poisoned with arsenic and mistletoe berries, their throats slit open with knifes and jade pins, hit with a hockey stick, tripped down the stairs, pushed down a well… She and Daisy have exposed murderers after murderers, cruel trick after cruel trick, seen dead body after dead body… but Hazel knows she will never get used to how peaceful a person looks when they're no longer in this world.

She downplayed her terror in her letter to Alexander—she absolutely does not want to see another dead body this time, does not want to pick through the tangle of dirty lies and cruel tricks to find the evil mastermind responsible for all the tragedy and misery.

The world is becoming an eviller place. She can feel it in her bones, smell it in the air, and taste it on her lips. And even as the hours slide by like butter and the train stutters to a halt outside the Gare du Nord, Hazel has a frightening feeling that playing detectives would not chase the evil away this time.


	2. 2

**2**

The Gare du Nord is one of the big train stations in Paris—and as Hazel and a half-awake Daisy stepped off the train and onto the crowded platform, the first thing Hazel sees is the messiness, the incompletion of the place. Half-finished construction projects are barred with flimsy, temporary walls, and construction workers dressed in dusty dungarees and half rolled-up long pants dodge and barrel through the crowd. One in a grimy beret pushes past Hazel. She stumbles back a few steps, and Daisy steadies her quickly.

"These people!" she huffs under her breath, even as she arranges her face into a placid, nonchalant expression. "Come on, Hazel, let's find our way through this crowd. Aunt Lucy must be waiting for us at the exit."

She grabs Hazel's hand, and slowly, they push past the hordes of people—smartly-dressed businessmen hurrying to get onto the train bound for London, and other countries in Europe, mothers with their children, maids carrying large bags of groceries, and important-looking people who immediately cleared a path through the crowd—like the businessmen, they are smartly-dressed, and they walked with a purposeful stride, a few people—they must have been their secretaries or some sort of guide—scurrying alongside them, trying to keep up with them.

Hazel stares after them curiously, and Daisy hisses in her ear, "Oh, Watson! I do believe these people may be the architects who have their works displayed for the Exposition! They do look terribly important, don't they? Now, I can't tell who they are, but my guess would be French, or German."

Hazel shrugs. She can't tell either, and honestly, she can't bother to guess right now—she hasn't slept at all from the moment when Daisy fell asleep on her, and her back and shoulder ache terribly. Even though she hasn't said anything, Daisy has shot her multiple half-apologetic, half-sheepish looks, and she knows Daisy knows she's tired—how she managed to figure all that out just by observing her gait, Hazel still can't quite manage to wrap her head around that. But she's never doubted Daisy's detecting abilities.

Hence she predicts that Daisy won't prode her further to join in her guessing games—and true enough, Daisy looks annoyed, but she doesn't say anything else, instead launching into a full-fledged rant about how her Uncle Felix just won't give her one snippet of information about his new assignment in Paris. Hazel is content to just listen, nodding her head and smiling at the right moments without a word. And that's how the two of them have always been—Daisy the talker, Hazel the listener; Daisy the leader, Hazel the follower. And surprisingly, Hazel finds herself just fine with that.

They find Aunt Lucy leaning against one of the white marble pillars framing the entrance of the Gare du Nord. She's in an ebony black coat and boots, and her face is cast into shadow by the cloche hat she's wearing—but Hazel and Daisy recognise her immediately nonetheless. It's hard not to recognise such an eloquent and well-carried lady such as Aunt Lucy herself—or Miss Alston, or Ms. Vitellus, like they used to call her due to her changing identities. But since she married Daisy's uncle quite some time back, Daisy and Hazel got used to calling her Aunt Lucy.

"I'm surprised you didn't come in a disguise," says Daisy as a form of greeting, and Aunt Lucy looks up slowly without a hint of surprise on her face, like she has already spotted the two of them there a long time ago.

Back in London last year, Aunt Lucy was teaching Daisy how to disguise herself properly, and thanks to her, Daisy has become quite the expert disguiser. Hazel was taught codes by Aunt Lucy, and she can now communicate effortlessly in many different codes and ciphers. She can't, however, say the same for Daisy, who has never taken an actual interest in the dry memorisation of different codes.

"Daisy, Hazel," she greets, her eyes taking in the both of them. They land on Hazel, and linger there for a good two seconds. Hazel tries not to fidget under her piercing stare. "My, Hazel, you've grown up quite a bit since London."

"She has, hasn't she?" agrees Daisy cheerfully. "I hardly recognise her anymore." Hazel throws a dirty look at her—surely that was laying it a bit too thick. But to her surprise, Aunt Lucy nods along, as if Daisy hasn't said anything out of the norm.

"Come along," she says to the two of them. "I'll get you settled at the Saint."

* * *

A few bus rides later, they arrive at the Hotel Saint Jacques. Ornate wrought-iron railings frame the glass windows, and the creamy brick exterior and the cobalt blue roof is pleasing to Hazel's eyes. The hotel itself looks slightly worn with age, a reminder of the glorious past it's lived through.

Aunt Lucy escorts them to the big hotel suite they have booked for the four of them—it is surprisingly simple, with only a trace of the luxury Hazel is used to seeing around. It is somehow warm and comforting, and Hazel unpacks her things quickly, transforming the space into hers. Beside her, Daisy grumbles about the room, but Hazel knows she's secretly happy with it. After all that has happened at Fallingford, on the Orient Express, in the Rue Theatre, the both of them have learnt the hard way that luxury and grandness is often nothing but a cover for darker, dirtier things going on under the surface.

It's good to have everything simple and plain, everything displayed for them to see, with nothing hidden under anything. Only in retrospect did Hazel wish she'd remembered this, and kept her mind clear under all circumstances. After all, Daisy was right—in the city of love, with the musk of romance and excitement, anything can be done without anyone noticing, and anyone can get pulled under by the current.

Even Hazel.

* * *

Unfortunately, keeping her mind clear is the last thing Hazel has on her mind as she dresses up for the Exposition.

Her mind is on the Phare du Monde, the Exposition architects, and Alexander. Her mind is almost always on Alexander, and it frustrates her. She flicks away a non-existent speck of dust on the fabric of her dress. It's a rich dark brown with a pleated skirt and a belt around her waist. She brushes and weaves her dark hair into a neater braid, and washes her face clean of any dirt and weariness from the train journey. She puts on her boots, making sure to tie her laces neatly and tightly. Then she heads over to join Daisy and Uncle Felix at the door.

Daisy loops her arm through Hazel's, and they set off for the Palais de Chaillot. In the car, Daisy fills Hazel in on information she's gathered on the Exposition.

"The Palais de Challiot was actually the Palais du Trocadéro… before they demolished it and replaced it with the Palais de Challiot. About the Phare du Monde you keep obsessing over, well, Eugène Freyssinet designed it—I rather like his name, especially the sound of _Freyssinet,_ don't you think? Well, he's an awfully clever architect, if I do say so myself. There are going to be so many pavilions from so many different countries there, and I hear there's a British Pavilion too, though it isn't much impressive, from what I've heard, which is such a shame."

"It's a shame, indeed," agrees Uncle Felix, even as his eyes are trained on the road ahead of them. "I've seen it already myself—we weren't prepared for such a competitive Exposition. It's rather underwhelming compared to the other countries, and sadly, that speaks badly for Britain."

Hazel listens to their conversation intently, and she half-wishes Hong Kong was important enough to be invited to showcase a Hong Kongese Pavilion. Her fingers slide back and forth the surface of an already mailed letter—the letter to Alexander she was writing on the train—she has already dropped it into the mailbox at the Gare du Nord. She hopes it can find Alexander in good time—it takes approximately two to three days for mail to be delivered from here to England, and by the time her letter reaches him, he might already be on the way to Paris.

That aside, she's looking forward to the opening ceremony of the Exposition—it ought to be glorious and grand to the maximum, and there's even going to be a ballet performance by a group of the most talented prima ballerinas based in Paris.

She doesn't say a word as the car slows down in front of the edifice—the _Palais de Chaillot_—and the chauffeur gets out of the limousine and opens the doors for them. Daisy links her arm through Hazel's as they step onto the smooth concrete, and Hazel tips her face to the darkening sky to feel the cool breeze tickle her hair. In the distance, the Eiffel Tower twinkles at her. The evening is filled with an organised frenzy—important-looking people dressed in sleek suits and tuxedos and dresses milling around in small groups, chattering away as they make their way towards the doors of the Palais.

Hazel's eyes stray on the ushers that escort the people to the Palais. Uncle Felix and Aunt Lucy don't seem like they need an escort at all—they stride confidently towards the intimidating crowd—but of course, one of the ushers, dressed in a simple black tuxedo, is right in front of them, blocking their route before Hazel even realises he's been making his way to them.

"Allow me, sir and madams," he says in a quiet voice that seems to travel over even the noise of the crowd.

Hazel looks up sharply. There's something about that voice that has struck something deep in her, something oddly familiar that resonates in her mind. And so she looks up. She looks up, and she sees the last person she ever thought she would meet again, the last person she wants to see again.

Beside her, Daisy is nudging her panickedly and incessantly, but Hazel can't bring herself to stop her. Besides, he has already caught sight of the two of them, and a crooked smile creeps up his lips, sending a chill down Hazel's spine. If he's surprised at all, he doesn't show it. She wants to break away from his piercing gaze, but she finds that she cannot.

"_You," _Aunt Lucy snarls, and Uncle Felix looks equally incensed, his arms stretched out as if he's trying to make a berth between them and the boy Hazel thought she once knew. She stares at him, and wonders if he can see the sadness in the intensity of her stare. He stares back at her, but it is one devoid of any incriminating emotion, merely the practised, welcoming smile of a faceless usher.

"Hazel, Daisy," Stephen Bampton says, the smile still on his all-too-familiar face. "What a lovely surprise."


End file.
